


The Fall

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Post-Episode: 2014 Xmas Last Christmas, Post-Episode: s09e02 The Witch's Familiar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Second chances turn out to have inevitable consequences.[S9 Episode tags from the Doctor's perspective, exploring the development of his relationship with Clara]





	1. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Sleeping At Last's re-imagining of Every Little Thing She Does is Magic

_“The TARDIS is outside.”_

_“So?”_

_“So, all of time and all of space is sitting out there in a big blue box. Please! Don't even argue...”_

\- The Doctor and Clara, Last Christmas

* * *

 

Water behind the dam wall roars, an impressively loud noise, but one that will rather reduce the impact of his planned monologue. He brandishes the sonic screwdriver. The Baron cringes, expecting violence. Instead there is a screech of feedback, the amplified sound of his dramatic throat-clearing echoing around the facility. In his mind’s ear he hears this broadcast down every street, in every house. Every citizen will hear what passes between them in this moment. The arrogance of the company, impressing themselves unwanted into the lives of their dependents, will be their undoing. There will be no going back, no arguing: a hundred thousand witnesses to this denouement.

_And Clara too._

He’s beyond caring that her reaction to this moment is every bit as important to him as saving the planet.

“What do you _want_ from me?” snivels the Baron, wiping sweat from his ridiculous moustache.

“I want people to know the truth,” he replies. The echo of his words from the speakers all around is every bit as impressive as hoped. “You’ve been manipulating the climatic stabiliser for years. Withholding the rains so AquaTech can profit from their need.”

“No! No, that’s not true-I swear-”

“Enough. I’ve taken the blinds off your central AI. Any minute now, she’s going to realise you’ve been manipulating her. Correct the error.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Clara raise her eyebrows, sceptical, and he prays his calculations are right.

“You can’t-please–they’ll tear me to pieces-” begs the Baron.

“No one else is going to die here today. There have been enough killings,” he snaps back. “Your Justices will try you as they see fit. And the rains will come as they should.” _Any time about now will do_ , he adds in the privacy of his own head, offering up a silent prayer to any god of dramatic tension that happens to be listening. _Not fussy, just a spot will do-_

And right on cue the drop strikes her cheek. Instinctive, Clara wipes it away like a tear. She extends her hand, palm up; catches the second, the third and fourth. She smiles at him as the clouds pour into the sky overhead, as the thunder breaks. For a heartsbeat the roar of the dam is matched by that of the blood in his ears.

_Focus!_

But even as he chides himself, the doors to the barrier walkway swish open. Two of the mechanical policemen are framed therein, all surgical steel and smooth white plastic. LEDs blink, positronic brain processing the unfolding drama behind a clear carapace of a skull. 

“Baron Hyde,” says the first, “you are under arrest for crimes against the Throne of Jemison...”

He finds he has rather lost interest in the specifics, absorbed instead by the dissolving grey fog of a healing timeline, the spray of the rain. And that smile. Advancing towards him now. She might be saying something but he is lost in the way water beads on her skin and traces the curve of her cheeks, drips from the point of her nose—

She taps him on the arm, making him flinch, bringing him back into the moment.

“Hey,” she says, “are you okay?”

“Fine,” he lies.

“Did it work? Did we fix the timeline?”

He reaches into his pocket, bigger on the inside, and pulls out an ancient umbrella like the magician she teases he might be. “Why don’t we go find out?” he suggests, extending his arm stiffly. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks, soft, as they splash their way back to the TARDIS. He can feel the vibration through his elbow, and it takes him a moment to unpick the sound from sensation.

“I’m fine. Why?”

Her smile goes crooked, which means something; exactly what he isn’t quite sure. “The, um, the umbrella. Bit chivalrous for you?”

“Your flannel clothes are inappropriate for the rain,” he hears himself say, from a long way away.

“Ha! You mean my dressing gown? That’s your fault for dragging me off in the middle the night.”

“I’d better not make a habit of it, then,” he says, smiling inwardly at the memory of another girl stolen into space in her nightie, a long, long time ago.

“I didn’t say that,” says Clara in the present, church-mouse quiet, as he pushes open the doors.

He pretends not to look at her as he pulls the lever, sends them spinning through time, towards the moment he was initially aiming for. Pretends he doesn’t see that longing on her face at the noise of the time rotor, the gleam in her eyes a mirror to his.

He clicks his fingers to open the doors. “Go on then.”

She laughs, just like she did in her bedroom mere hours ago, turns and steps through the door to see the wonder he has bought them to.


	2. Fire

_“.. I think you've been lying.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Don't apologise. Make it up to me.”_

\- The Doctor and Clara, The Magician’s Apprentice

* * *

 

Within the ring of stones the cultists are chanting, words the TARDIS does not deign to translate. Hooded and robed, faces pale ovals in the dark of their cowls. Bloodless. Their leader raises her voice, an ululation above the background hymn that makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There is power in those words, ancient and terrible. The standing stones quake and tremble, their earthy footings coming loose, as ponderously they start to rotate. Hidden in the bushes, he is aghast.

Clara brings him back to Earth with a whisper. “Doctor?”

“Run.”

“What? No-!”

“Go, now. Get help.”

Her eyes and mouth three circles. This one he knows – shock or surprise. “Help? From _who_?”

“Wake the villagers. Please, Clara…”

“Okay, okay,” she says, her mouth now a grim line now, resolved. “You-you stay safe though, d’you-?”

“Yes, yes, go, _go_!”

She bites her lip but does as he bids, sprinting off through the damp woodlands. He transfers his attention back to the stone circle, where the shortest of the robed figures edges forward, towards the centre stone. The quartzite behemoth is now rotating so violently it has become a glittering blur. The robed figure takes another hesitant step, like a man to scaffold. Soft and squishable human versus several tonnes of accelerating sarsen; there’s a sickening kind of inevitability to that equation.

He knows the power of a sacrifice, an untimely death that fractures reality. Perhaps it’s the Carrionites, the Leonians, or some other species intent on yoking a tragedy to their will; pushing through the cracks of paper thin reality. It really doesn’t matter.

There is no time for a clever trick or cunning plan. He simply steps forward, into the orange light of their occult fire. An arm, extended to block the path of the sacrificial acolyte. “I don’t think so,” he says, with all the authority he can muster.

It’s enough; the words off script disrupt the strange science in motion. The standing stones lurch alarmingly, slamming back into the ground with such force one of them cracks, clean in half. For a moment pin-drop silence. He can feel energy dissipating, earthing itself as crackling static.

And as one the cultists turn to stare at the stranger in their midst, unblinking. He bolts.

It’s not a conscious decision. Something about those hungry eyes cuts right to the core of his being, past layers of Time Lord pomposity and world-weary pragmatism, pressing the button in his hind-brain marked ‘primal terror.’ An unearthly wail quavers into the dark. The hunt is on.

He runs by instinct, the flight of a man used to dodging enemy fire and leaping inconvenient obstacles, ignoring the whipping snap of twigs and branches. Thorns tear at his clothes, draw blood from hands and face. Though he does not slow, he’s uncomfortably aware it’s not enough; dark shapes draw level amongst the adjacent trees—

His foot snags a root and he tumbles, rolls over and over, down a woodland bank, into a stream. A bone jarring descent. There is no time to recover his flight; bloodied fingers close around a broken branch as he slews to a halt in the water. _A weapon_.

He comes up swinging, catching the first of the cultists square in the chest, knocking them backwards in an explosion of spray.  The man in robes hisses, winded; wounded.

“You don’t have to do this,” he tries. “Stop, please.”

Wrong words. The man finds his feet and draws his knife as two comrades start to pick their way down the bank. The branch whistles through the air again, holding them at bay, but for how long? _Come on, Doctor, think!_ But it’s hard, in the face of those hungry eyes, as they circle like wolves calculating how best to kill—

 _Peep-peep-peeeeep!_ It takes a moment for him to realise the shrill shriek is not the ringing in his ears but a whistle, blowing frantically. Torchlight is wavering between the tree trunks now, heading his way.

“Doctor!” Clara, at the head of a squad of local constabulary, calling his name.

“Over here!” he manages.

There is a confusing moment of flashing torchlight, the heavy booted feet of Her Majesty’s Finest splashing in the water, and men shouting. The cultists are running now, hunters become hunted, as the policemen give chase.

And Clara’s hand has found his, taking the branch from unresisting fingers. “Are you okay?” she says, reaching to touch a sore spot near his temple.

“Fine,” he winces, “you called the _Police_?”

“Told you we needed to start doing that more often,” she returns coolly. “Come on, or we’ll-”

“Let PC Pudding Brain and company catch those idiots. We need to go back to the stones while it’s quiet.”

“What?”

“Trust me,” he says, and she does; she really still does, after everything.

He is winded and limping, more badly hurt by his unintentional hillside roll than he is willing to let on.  Her hand stays in his, pulling him along where she needs to, supporting him when his leg trembles and shakes.

“Here we are,” she whispers, as they reach the clearing again. “Want to tell me what can’t wait until you’re at least not actively bleeding?”

“Blood’s useful,” he rasps, stumbling towards the big centre stone, smearing a film of it from forehead to fingers. He leaves a bloodied print on the monolith, which glows eerily for a second, before disappearing into the stone.  

“Okay,” she says, a little shakily, “that’s unusual.”

“Very.” He puts on the sonic sunglasses. “I’m trying to trace the recipient. Ouch!” A sharp little shock, feedback through the glasses. He pulls them from his face, smoking slightly.

“What happened?”

“Shielding. I don’t recognise the modulation… We need to close this gateway.”

“Okay, how do we do that? Magic words… or-or..?”

He considers the options. “Magic words might work,” he says slowly. “But I don’t know which ones. Might take a while.”

“So a quicker option is…?

Brown eyes meet blue, as tattered rags of raincloud drift away on the winds, revealing a silver-bright moon.  

 “Explosives?” they say in unison.

“We’re close to Salisbury Plain here,” he says.

“Are you proposing we rob a military installation?” she says. “Could be risky.” She is grinning.

“Ah, come on. The British Army in nineteen fifty-three? You’re talking to the genius who masterminded the only successful break in to the Bank of Karabraxos…”

“Yeah, with a little help from a solar storm.”

“Well, this time we’ve got the TARDIS at least…”

“Basically an in-and-out job, that’s what you’re saying?” Her raised eyebrow suggests she is less than convinced.

“Oh, absolutely,” he lies.  

* * *

Of course, these things never do go as smoothly as they should. Still, he reasons, crunching the gears of their stolen Centurion tank, twenty pounds of high velocity explosive should do the trick.

“We’re getting close!” Clara shouts, from her position on the periscope. “Turn right a little bit.” He pulls some levers, pretty much at random. “No, your other right!”

A few more clanks and clunks, and a surreptitious application of the battered sonic sunglasses lead to a thumbs-up.

“So is this a thing now?”

“What?!”

“Tanks!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” She gives up on conversation under such noisy conditions, helping him load the ammunition in the main turret instead.

“Sure this will be enough?!”

“It had better be!”

 _Ker-thunk!_ A banging crash as the shell flies away, almost immediately followed by the _crump_ of an explosion. A few seconds later the shockwave hits, vibrating the Centurion alarmingly. They both stumble, and suddenly she is in his arms – he’s not sure who was trying to catch who – but here they are.  Covered in engine grease and dirt and smiling from ear-to-ear; he tries to convince himself it’s just the adrenaline of the explosion that’s suddenly making his hearts race.

“Do you want to..?” She inclines her head in offer, and for a long, queasy moment he worries she can read his less than pure thoughts.

“Oh, um, yes,” he says, penny finally dropping that she is offering him first view on the fiery destruction they have wrought rather than anything else. He lets go; spins to sight down the periscope instead.

The stone circle is gone, a smoking crater in its place. “I would call that success,” he says, relinquishing the viewer to her.

“I bet you would,” she laughs. “Come on, let’s get out of here before anything else goes right.”

 


	3. Alcohol

He sits, cross legged, in the centre of the bare little room. Deep, deep within the TARDIS; as close to an inner sanctum a folded-up sentient slice of space-time can have. Eyes closed, consciousness turned in. _Damage, damage._ Bruised ribs, a broken finger. Contusions and excoriations, superficial. Still painful.

A breath in and out, pushing his senses to the limits of his skin—

“Ah,” says Clara, “sorry.”

He cracks one eye. She is standing the doorway, a first aid kit in her hand. The green one with a white cross on it that seems strangely ubiquitous amongst humans. Or at least ones that travel with him.

“Do you mind?” he huffs, genuinely astonished she has found this place. It’s not a room the TARDIS generally grants anyone else access to. Which raising the interesting conundrum of whether she is conspiring against him in this moment, or merely facilitating his subconscious feelings regarding public and private spaces in relation to Clara.

“No,” Clara says, “you can do the whole Time Lord mystic thing and meditate the wounds away if that’s what you prefer. I just came to see if you needed any help.” A pause, an expression he does not recognise; uncharacteristic shyness perhaps? “I mean, like you did for me.”

 _Ah_. She wants to talk about her Dalek experience, something he is more than happy to never revisit again. Nonetheless, he has the nagging feeling he might owe her this, as part of making things up. He considers his options.

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” he allows, scowling. “A bit of antiseptic.”

She takes this ungracious response as the invitation it is meant, and sits in front of him. “It looks nasty.” She opens the case and pulls out cotton swabs and what smells like an alcoholic solution of some sort. Primitive, a dwindling part of himself sneers, but admittedly effective. He winces as she gentle dabs the head wound. “Don’t be a baby,” she chides, so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

He raises his hand to stay hers, suspending them in a strange tableau. He cannot meet her eyes, focussing instead on strands of hair that have escaped to frame her face, the curious curve of her earlobe. “I’m sorry,” he tries.

She continues her ministrations after a long moment, freeing her hand from his. “Don’t be daft. Blowing up an ancient alien monument with a stolen tank? Where else do you get a playlist like that?”

“In here? All the time,” he jokes, trying to push aside the curiously diminished feeling her gentle brush away of his touch has caused.

“I know,” she says, soft again. He makes the mistake looking at her now; hearts lurching painfully. “Let’s go do it again? Once you’re fixed up, of course.”

That gleam in her eyes again, the mirror to his. How can he resist? “Dermal regenerator will go quicker,” he says, indicating the door with a flicker of his eyes, “shall we?” 

 “Let’s go.”

* * *

Time Lord and human physiology overlaps in a number of interesting ways, he’s always thought. One of the more socially useful is the effect of ethanol on the critical faculties. And balance.

They are drunk. Both, he hopes, in that pleasant state of intoxication where laughter comes easier and everything seems like a slightly better idea than it might when sober. Although he’s pretty sure Clara would argue that second effect doesn’t require any chemical inducement on his part.

Snow is piling up on the window ledge outside. She pulls back the fur-lined hood she has borrowed, warming up close to the fire in the lodge with brandy burning in her belly. Her hands are still cold. He rubs them between his own, eliciting a curious look.

“What?” he says.  

“Nothing. Just—”

“Just _what_?”

She takes another sip of her brandy toddy, smiles fondly. “Just, last time you did something like that I think we were both naked.”

He thinks he might remember, stepping out into snow, wearing a different face. “A long time ago,” he says.

“For you,” she agrees, “a lifetime.” Her fingers are still caught between his, as she considers her next words carefully. “I forgot that, sometimes. Y’know. When you were all new and grey and… different.”

He coughs, uncomfortable; casts around for a distraction to twitch her onto a branch line from this uncomfortable train of thought. “Right, well—”

“It is different now, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This.” She squeezes his hand with her thumbs. “Touching. Hugging.”

He considers the scored table top. “Yes. Less… overwhelming, I suppose.” Blue eyes find brown. “And I think… I think it’s important to you.”

A brief smile, her own eyes dipping to the table. “You really care what I think?”

He tries not to show the hurt on his face. “Yes.”

She realises she has stung him anyway, shifting her fingers to hold his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Ha.   Maybe we could _both_ do with a strategy.”

“A strategy?” How very Clara. To try and take control of something that is as fundamentally unknowable as emotional response.

“Yeah. I dunno. Like… like cue-cards or something.”

“You really think that would work?”

“Maybe,” she says, smiling again. “I mean, could be worth a try, couldn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Have you got some paper? Come on, don’t give me that look. I know those pockets are bigger on the inside.” Two bags of jelly-babies, a yo-yo, a Venusian five- _chint_ note, a bicycle lock and a small jade figurine later, he pulls out the required stationery. “Right,” she says, taking the pen. “You give me a scenario and we’ll come up with a response we think is appropriate.”

He rather suspects they will come up with a response _she_ deems appropriate, but keeps that remark to himself, proving his growing tact already. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something that happens a lot. Like, if you were with people under attack by Daleks. What would you say if someone asked if they were going to be okay?”

“Almost certainly not.”

She laughs, the pen moving over paper. “Well, there we go then. Try this one.”

“…No-one is going to be eaten-slash-vapourised-slash-exterminated-slash-upgraded-slash-mortally wounded-slash-turned to jelly. We'll all get out of this unharmed."

“Okay, but, y’know, with more _conviction_.”

“Why? It’s a lie. My conviction is that they’re all going to die.”

“As if you’re above lying when it suits you,” she says sharply. His comeback dies on his lips. “You’ve told me before, people with hope move faster.”

He coughs. Unconvinced as he is by this plan, he clearly still has some miles to go on the making things up to her front.  “Okay. Let’s do another one. What would you say if…?”


	4. Dirt

The explosion shakes the tunnel, a fine rain of dust greying her hair prematurely.

“It’s not working, is it?”

He ignores her, focussing the sonic glasses as if finger and thumb on the frame can possibly make any difference. “Quiet. I’m trying…” He’s not sure quite how that sentence ends. To think, possibly, of a plan, any plan; any one in a million chance that might get them out of this situation alive.

Another explosion. This time the shockwave throws them both to the floor. He finds his fists have balled on the loose fabric of her torn coat; her fingers are digging painfully into his forearms when the world stills. Instinctively they have reached for one another in the chaos.

“Doctor,” she says, soft. “I have to do this.”

“No,” he snaps, “no I won’t—”

“There isn’t any other way. You can’t get through the force-field because you’re not human. I can. Give me the glasses and _trust_ me.”

Words, words are stuck in his throat. Trust is not the issue here; he trusts Clara Oswald with the core of his being. Without her he’s not sure he even remembers how to be the Doctor, not anymore.

“ _Clara_ ,” he manages.

“I’ll be quick,” she says, squeezing his arm, “Let me do this.”

He studies the rough earth of the tunnel floor for an eternity, as if it can offer answer. “Fine,” he says, suddenly swift, ripping off the sonic glasses. “ _Don’t_ get yourself killed.”

“I won’t,” she says, taking the spectacles in hand. “Thank you.” And then she does something she has never done before; letting go of his arm, reaching to gently cup his face.

Colour drains from the world, time slowed to a glacier creep. _What does this mean?_ The little ball is rolling in the roulette wheel of his mind, trying to fit this with all her other facial tics and quirks and touches—

And she is gone, running away down the tunnel towards the failing reactor core, leaving nothing but a vanishing cold on his cheek. He remains still, so still, every sense stretched towards her, all hope bent towards her success.

 _Because if Clara Oswald dies_ , a part of himself whispers, _you will burn this world and everything in it._

Another huge crash, taking down part of the ceiling, releasing the smell of damp earth. Still he remains, almost convinced he can hear running footsteps returning on the packed soil—

He is not mistaken. She rounds the corner at a dead sprint, the rescued reactor workforce close behind. “Run you idiot,” she shouts, as the stampede approaches. Her hand finds his as they pound towards the exit.

“Told you… I could… do it,” she pants, as they reach the tunnel mouth, and starlit night. Her breath steams in the cold air. Unspoken, old words between them. _I was the Doctor today, and I was good_.

“Yes,” he says simply, as if the world isn’t balanced on a knife edge. The mantle of Doctor has slipped from his shoulders, held in place like a ragged banner between the two of them. He’s not even sure that’s a bad thing. Not anymore.

* * *

Back in the TARDIS, the wheezing groan of her rotor is a balm and comfort. He looks across the room and sees her smile, realising she feels in this moment _exactly_ the same as he does. And there it is again, that hearts freezing moment of uncertainty mingled with longing. _I_ want _someone else to feel like me_ , says a part of him, while the rest of him rages at the selfishness of that wish.

“Are you okay?” she says, from a million miles away.

“Yes,” he says. “No. I don’t know.”

“What happened?” She crosses to him, lifting his chin with a friendly finger. “You hit your head in that tunnel?”

She’s giving him an exit, behind that gentle smile. _Yes_ , he can say, and push away these thoughts. Race onwards to their next adventure. Is that what she wants?

“Maybe,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go find that restaurant at the end of the universe we were looking for.”


End file.
